


Lately, I’m Sure It’s You There

by sariagray



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariagray/pseuds/sariagray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry knows too much, and John is still in danger; Post-Reichenbach Christmas in a cabin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lately, I’m Sure It’s You There

**Author's Note:**

> Title and end-quote from Tori Amos’ “[Our New Year](http://youtu.be/dYzoOpSoQkg).” Inspired by a need for more Harry Watson.
> 
> Beta'd by analineblue.

I know that Sherlock Holmes is not dead. 

I know this because I saw him, alive and well, at his own gravesite. It is a secret that the British Government, embodied by a man wearing a stiff suit and holding an umbrella, has sworn me to keep. 

“It is a matter of national security,” he says. “You understand, of course, Ms. Watson.”

“Harry,” I say, automatically. “Just Harry.”

I figure, if the British Government wants to call on me for tea and vaguely concealed threats, it might as well call me by my given name.

\---

Six months, two weeks, four days, three hours, and forty-nine minutes.

Fifty minutes.

Fifty-one minutes.

That is how long I have been sober. If I hadn’t been, I might have mistaken what I’d seen that morning, relegated the shadowy figure of the late Sherlock Holmes to a bit of alcohol-induced fantasy. But it was bright out, and my head was clear, and I’ve always had sharp eyes. 

He was dressed exactly the same as the one time we’d met: coat and scarf and sour, distant expression, standing over his own grave like an apparition. 

I’d gone to give his bones a piece of my mind, because John never would. He would never blame Sherlock for what happened; he spouted off names like ‘Mycroft’ and ‘Moriarty’ and ‘Sally’ and let them carry the weight of it.

“He was pushed,” John had said that first night, sitting on my sofa and nursing a cup of tea like it was the only warm thing in the world.

I had barely opened my mouth to respond before he continued.

He said, “Not physically, not by hands, but he was pushed all the same” and went back to staring blankly past my shoulder.

I didn’t argue with him then. There’s no arguing with a Watson when they get something in their head. And I didn’t know Sherlock Holmes well enough to make any good points, except that he was completely unpredictable and dangerous and narcissistic.

Takes one to know one, as they say.

I punched him – Sherlock, that is – at the grave. He turned around and his eyes widened in recognition, and then my fist was in his face.

He said, “Harriet,” as if we’d just run into each other in Tesco, and wiped at his open, bleeding mouth.

“You utter _bastard_. Does he know? Does John know? Who else knows?”

He straightened his collar, smoothed his scarf.

“He isn’t safe. John. Don’t – don’t tell him.” And then, an afterthought. “Please.”

“Who _knows_?”

I let my hand clench into a fist again, which wasn’t really much of a threat, as my knuckles ached and surely the great Sherlock Holmes could tell. Still, he deflated.

“My brother, for one. He will be in contact with you shortly.”

He paused. He looked at me the way he did when we first met, with his eyes narrowed and his face still.

“Five months sober,” he said after a moment. “Well done. Don’t speak a word.”

And then he left.

\---

Our bags are packed. It’s almost Christmas, just ten days out, and John is withdrawing even further into himself.

Mycroft, Sherlock’s brother and the embodiment of the British Government, says it’s something to do with being in the battlefield, but not being able to fight. I don’t know what that means, but I don’t feel like asking. 

He’s the reason we’re leaving. There’s a cabin in the countryside of Wales, somewhere, and we’re to stay there over the holidays. At least, that’s the idea.

I told John that we both needed to get away from London for a bit. It was getting too bright and too crowded and too bitter. I had some money left over, I said, from the separation settlement, and wouldn’t it be nice to stay in a cozy cabin?

When that didn’t work, I said I needed to remove myself from temptation – from the sadness of the season, from the countless cocktail parties – and that I didn’t want to go away alone. 

That did the trick.

The truth of it is that we are not safe. I know too much, and John is still a target. Mycroft picked the location and added the many layers of security that we apparently won’t even notice. We’re getting close to something now, and no one will tell me what that something is.

\---

My brother still believes in Sherlock Holmes.

It frustrates me to no end, because he has no reason to. Even though I know he’s right, even though I’m proud of him for being so unerringly loyal, it eats away at me. Because Sherlock believes in John just as much, cares for him in a way I didn’t think he was capable of…and it’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything like that. 

Trust, they say, is the foundation of a relationship. I think it’s more the fulcrum, the way it can make a relationship tip and falter if it’s not balanced correctly. But what do I know? I have nothing but a failed love life and decades of blacked out memories behind me.

Clara and I still talk on occasion. She’s seeing someone new, and I actually like her. They’re good together. It makes me want to punch things.

John caught me sitting on the edge of my bathtub, crying, last night. There was an unopened bottle of red wine in my hands; I was gripping its neck and twisting my fingers and sobbing over it. He took it from me and held me, his hand on the back of my head. 

It was all I could do not to tell him that Sherlock was still alive, to give him that one comfort in return.

\---

The cabin is, if nothing else, comfortable. It has all of the modern amenities – running water, heat, electricity – and all of the classic comforts. There are heavy quilts on the beds, thick and cool to the touch. The furniture is made of warm polished wood and upholstered in plush flannels and fleeces. The rooms smell of sharp pine and deep earth.

There is internet access, of course, but it feels almost a shame to sit down on my laptop or to check my phone. John has retreated into the kitchen to make tea. I’m hoping this place is unfamiliar enough to keep the memories at bay.

Before we left, I’d received a last minute visit from Mycroft. We’ve had to keep these meetings a secret from John, so we either wait until he leaves for work or Mycroft picks me up in one of his sleek black cars and we drive around London, aimlessly. 

This time, we met in an abandoned warehouse.

“I appreciate your silence, Ms. Watson,” he said. 

I’ve long since stopped correcting him. He seems the type to want to keep a good bit of distance between us. I’m perfectly fine with this.

“How long do I have to keep it?” 

I crossed my arms over my chest. I do that, when I’m defensive. At least, that’s what Clara’s told me. I also spread my legs a little and angle my body like I’m looking for a fight. I wasn’t looking for one this time, though. I just wanted answers.

“I’m optimistic that we should be in the clear once you and John return from your holiday. If you have need of anything while there, please contact my assistant. Only contact me directly if it is an emergency.”

He then told me that the cabin was well-stocked with food and supplies, and that we’d want for nothing. Well. There’s a lot I want for, but I doubt I’d get any of it from Mycroft Holmes.

\---

John is out cutting firewood for the fireplace in the sitting room. It’s a big thing, rather grand, and I’d mentioned earlier that it might be nice to have a proper fire for Christmas Eve.

It’s cold out, with a light dusting of snow on the ground, but even still, he’s taken his jacket off. It’s resting on a stump next to where he’s chopping. 

We cut down a pine last night and brought it in. We have no decorations; it’s just standing in front of the window. There’s popcorn, though, and I bet there’s thread somewhere, so maybe I’ll make a garland tonight. It’s going to be a very quiet, plain Christmas this year. I don’t know if I prefer it this way or not. It might be better if there was a bit more joy to be had between us.

\---

We spent Christmas Eve bundled up under blankets, looking at the stars from the front porch. We were facing out across the yard. Maybe that’s why it was easier to talk; we didn’t have to look at each other.

“I miss him,” John said. His voice sounded like it did when he was little, and scared. “Sometimes, I wake up and wonder what he’s done to the flat overnight, and then I remember that he’s not there, and there is no flat, and then it hurts to breathe.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. I – is this how it felt, for you? With Clara?”

I paused, remembering. Or, trying to. A lot of that time is painted over black and grey and brown, muddied and foggy. “I felt numb. I was drunk half the time, and angry the other half. I spent so long trying to pretend not to care.”

“I don’t think I could pretend.”

We sat, silent and huddled, for another hour before heading back in to our beds.

\---

My first present was a text from a now-familiar number proclaiming us “clear of danger,” but reminding me to continue holding my tongue, as a precaution.

My second was being woken by John as he shook my leg and gasped, with a smirk, that it was Christmas morning. 

I laughed; we used to do this to each other on Christmas mornings past, and while his eyes weren’t alight with excitement and anticipation, while I could tell that he was faking it, I knew he was doing it for my sake and I was grateful.

“Not like we have any presents under the tree,” I grumbled, pushing him off of me.

“Um. Well. Actually, we do. And a visitor.”

I froze. Was this to be the big reveal, then?

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry I kept it a secret so long.” 

He laughed. “It’s fine, really. Although I don’t know how she made it up here with all of those packages and her hip and not a bit of help.”

Not much of a reveal after all.

Still, it was pleasant having Mrs. Hudson in, and things from friends and family to unwrap under the tree. I’d not interacted much with John’s former landlady, but she always struck me as pleasant and maternal, and I had been happy that at least one reasonable adult was looking out for my brother. 

We left John to clean up the paper, and I pulled Mrs. Hudson into the kitchen for tea.

“Mycroft’s doing?”

She nodded. “He’s a dear boy, he does try, but oh how he and Sherlock used to be at it all the time! You’d think…well.” She shook her head, then glanced back into the sitting room. John was sat on the floor, surrounded by bits of wrapping and starring out the window. “How is he holding up?”

“He’s not himself, but I suppose he’s getting there. I just wish….”

I trailed off, and she put her hand on my shoulder, her voice low.

“It’ll be over soon, dear. I told Mycroft that it’d be best to ease him into it, but he wouldn’t listen to a word. Too much danger, or some such.”

“You _know_?”

She nodded. “Just as of last week, mind. I had to take Sherlock’s things back out of storage and tidy up the flat. I don’t know that John will want to move back in, of course, but the rooms needed airing, and there was so much dust!”

So much dust, so much airing. And more to come, I’m sure.

\---

“Last Christmas,” John says.

“It was a lovely party.” Mrs. Hudson pats him on the knee. “Although Molly, the poor dear! And that awful business with the morgue!”

“And Jeanette.”

I sip my cocoa and tuck the quilt around my legs. It’s getting late, and we’re sitting by the fire on the couch and the chairs, telling stories. There’s one here, in this mention, if the look on John’s face is any indication.

“Jeanette?” I ask.

“Mm. We’d been dating, oh, two weeks. And then Sherlock insults her, forgets who she is, and then _I_ forget who she is. Thought she was the one with the bloody dog, bugger it all. And she tells me I’m a wonderful boyfriend, and Sherlock is a lucky man.”

I can’t help it; I laugh. It feels good, and soon John is laughing, and Mrs. Hudson, too. We’re all giggling like children; we can’t even look at each other without falling into it again.

“You know, I’ve never met any of your girlfriends since…since you came back home,” I say, once we’ve calmed down a bit.

Mrs. Hudson tsks and gives a wink. “That’s because Sherlock always got to them first. I always did wonder…oh, well.”

John finishes off his cocoa first and leans back in his seat. He’s always had an open face, my brother, and I can watch him sink into some memory or another. If I’m honest, I always did wonder, myself. John had been rather devoted to Sherlock, and I think maybe a little in love with the bastard.

He seems to shake himself out of it, and he smiles. “I’m as straight as a ruler, Mrs. H.” 

“Yes,” I say. “You are. But they make rulers out of rubber now, and those can bend.”

I grin. Mrs. Hudson laughs. John throws a cushion at me and the last bit of my cocoa goes all over my shirt.

Not such a bad Christmas, after all.

\---

Mrs. Hudson will be staying with us through the New Year. I insisted, and John could do nothing but agree, and so our plan was put into action.

She’s good to have around, not just because she lightens the burden of my secret. She is quick, that one, and I half expect she can see just as astutely as Sherlock could. Maybe that’s why they got along so well. I’d always wondered.

She’s been teaching me to knit. I don’t think I’ll ever really take it up, but it’s nice to have something to do with my hands while we wait. Because that’s exactly what we’re doing right now. Waiting.

John, of course, is waiting for his life to get back on track. He’s waiting for something to break, or to fix itself, or to just disappear completely. I suppose Mrs. Hudson and I are waiting for the same thing, although we have the curse and the blessing of knowing just what shape it will take.

He has been reading a lot, lately. The cabin has a decent bookshelf, filled with classics. He’s on Dickens, now. I don’t know which one, but it looks thick and heavy and, well, boring. I’ve never been much of a fan of Dickens. He writes too much and says too little.

It’s snowing now, too, and we have the fire going again. It makes me nostalgic, which is silly, as I’ve never spent time in a cabin, in the snow, with a fire before. Still, there’s a twinge of the distantly familiar.

“You’re a romantic soul, aren’t you?” Mrs. Hudson says, after a while.

“I don’t think many would say that about me.”

“Not many would say that Sherlock cared too much, either, but he did.” 

Her voice is low, quiet – John is in his room, but everything is so still here that sound carries further than you’d think it should.

I nod.

“I can tell,” she continues, still looking down at the blue-grey scarf she’s knitting. “You’ve got the look of the broken-hearted on your face. It’s okay, dear. We’ve all been there. Have I told you about my husband?”

I say no, and so she does, and I feel a little better (selfishly, of course) after. 

\---

New Year’s Eve passes even more quietly than Christmas. We’ve done most of our packing, and there’s obviously no alcohol in the cabin to be had. We drink sparkling cider, instead. It’s sweet and crisp, and I don’t miss champagne as much as I thought I might.

They both know, of course, and so they keep my brain occupied and my mouth laughing. We don’t even make it to midnight. We go to bed at half past ten and I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, remembering what can be remembered of parties past. Not much, it turns out. But I will always remember tonight.

John’s eyes were smiling, for once. The crow’s feet (oh, when did we both get so old, brother?) crinkle, the lines on his face deepen. It’s lovely; he looks warmer than he has in months.

I’m terrified to think what might happen.

We’ll leave for London tomorrow, and drop Mrs. Hudson off at Baker Street, and then….Well, only time will tell.

\---

There’s grey and brown slush on the streets, and the air feels thick with grime, after so long in the country. There’s too much artificial light and no stars. The city is a barrier between us both; John is tense to the point of stillness, and I am fidgety with nerves, chewing on my cuticles. Mrs. Hudson is the only one of us who seems remotely calm.

The cab brings us to the front of 221 Baker Street. It is dark as midnight; it looks almost deserted. The little shop below is closed, too, and the only light comes from the streetlamps. It’s never looked so dismal or foreboding before.

“John, be a dear. Could you help me with my case?”

His mouth is tight, but he nods. He’d help her carry her things into Hell, I know; in fact, for him, that’s probably not so different from what he’s agreeing to do right now.

I step out from the front seat to open the door for them, and tell the driver to wait. It takes them a moment to maneuver and bring Mrs. Hudson’s things (a bag and her case and the duffel of fresh pine we’d collected for her own fireplace) to the door.

I am holding the cab when I hear it – the soft strains of a violin (god, it sounds like _weeping_ ). They slowly solidify, and grow louder, until I find I’m quietly humming along to Auld Lang Syne on a London street at quarter past eleven at night. 

Looking back, as I climb into the cab, I see John freeze mid-reach for the doorknob, Mrs. Hudson right next to him. Her hand hovers over his back, as though ready to comfort him at a moment’s notice, if necessary. 

And then, like a switch has been flipped, he throws the door open and flies up the stairs. The lights on the second floor go on before John could have made it to their old flat. Out of nowhere, it starts to snow.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I just tell the driver my address and rest my head in my hands, my coat pulled tightly around me.

\---

_Every corner that I turn,_  
I've convinced myself one day you'll be there.   
Choruses of 'Auld Lang Syne' –  
Could this be the year? 


End file.
